


normal

by barthelme



Series: cleverer and cleverest; we've both been climbing everest [2]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 09:44:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20172184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barthelme/pseuds/barthelme
Summary: almost a decade old. just moving everything over here. bartbarthelme on tumblr.





	normal

**Author's Note:**

> almost a decade old. just moving everything over here. bartbarthelme on tumblr.

Cesc, in his boxers and slippers, leans over the kitchen counter, shovels scrambled eggs into his mouth. They’re covered in ketchup—Pique loves ketchup—and doused with a thick black layer of pepper. “You made eggs?”

Cesc nods and balances an impossibly large clump of eggs on his fork. “Yep.” He devours the clump. A bit of ketchup sticks to his lips and he chews, licks at the ketchup.

“Well,” Pique surveys the kitchen, “where’s mine?” It’s his house, after all. His kitchen, his eggs, his ketchup, his salt, his Cesc. He wants his breakfast.

Cesc shrugs and scoots the eggs around, gets them covered in ketchup, then eats the last bite. “I didn’t make you any.”

And Pique’s just joking (He doesn’t really care about the eggs. He has toaster strudel buried at the bottom of his freezer.), but he walks behind Cesc and puts a hand on his back. “What?”

Cesc pushes back against Pique’s hand, tries to stand up. “You heard me. You only had like three eggs, anyways. Maybe we should go gro—”

He stops short when Pique’s palm thwacks against his ass. It’s soft, playful, and Pique smiles as he does it. He keeps his hand on Cesc’s ass cheek, squeezes the flesh. “You really ate all my eggs?”

Cesc finds his voice, but it’s strange, a bit cowed. “I’m sorry.”

Pique drags his thumb down Cesc’s crack, the flannel soft, worn. Then, he turns to the fridge and opens the door, grabs the milk. “Nah, it’s fine. I needed to go shopping today anyways.” He opens the carton, turns around, and is mid-gulp when he sees Cesc’s still bent over, his knuckles white as he grips the counter. His triceps are tight, quivering.

A few drops of milk roll down Pique’s chin, drop to his chest. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and thinks, “Oh.” Then, “Oh.”

Pique’s not sure what’s going on between him and Cesc, but he knows he likes it. Sure, Cesc sleeps around and it bothers Pique, but never enough to make him angry. Because when Cesc’s with him, in his bed—or on the floor, in the hall, on the couch, in the kitchen, oh god, the kitchen—Pique knows that Cesc is his.

When Puyol is drunk, he’s very blunt. They’re eating pizza, drinking beer, watching Superbad. “Doesn’t it piss you off?”

He shrugs. “Nah. I mean, it’s not like we’re together or anything.” The word is said like a laugh.

“But, you don’t sleep with other…anyone else?”

Pique shrugs and finishes his beer, grabs for another piece of pizza. Some sausage falls off and he picks it up with his fingers, popping it into his mouth and chewing around his words. “No.”

“So, it’s okay for him to fuck other guys but you can’t?”

“I didn’t say I can’t. I just don’t.”

Puyol rolls his head against the back of the couch, he sighs like he’s annoyed and Pique knows it’s just because they’re friends, just because he cares. “But why? You could.”

“Because I don’t want anyone else. And, Cesc can fuck whoever he wants, I don’t care. And you want to know why?”

Puyol rolls his eyes, looks at Pique as if to say, “I just asked you why, Dipshit.”

Pique takes a bite of pizza, cheese hanging from his mouth. “He always comes back to me, doesn’t he?”

There are three things Pique likes about Cesc. Well, there are a lot of things Pique likes about Cesc. But three main things stick out.

One. He laughs when he watches sitcom reruns. Every time. It doesn’t matter if he’s seen the show once, twice, or a hundred times. He’ll laugh at all the punch lines. And not a chuckle, but a deep laugh that creases his eyes and folds his forehead into a series of wrinkles. Pique likes it best when he slaps his knee. Outwardly, he makes fun of Cesc for laughing like an old man. Inwardly, he thinks, “My God you are adorable.” Pique doesn’t like people to know he thinks they’re adorable, so he keeps that one to himself.

Two. His eyes. Cesc can’t lie or hide his emotions because his eyes—God damn, his eyes—tell Pique everything. He especially likes when Cesc’s being serious or trying to concentrate. And his eyes get dark, almost black. Yes, he definitely likes that, too.

Three. He loves sucking cock.

Now, Pique likes sex. He likes everything about it, even the gross stuff they don’t teach you in sex ed. Blowjobs are great and if Cesc asked him to, he’d spend an entire day attached to his cock. But, Cesc loves it. Straight up loves it.

“Just put your seat back,” Cesc pleads. His seatbelt is off and he’s turned sideways, tucking his leg under his body.

“No.”

“Please?”

Pique doesn’t have to look over to know that Cesc is pouting. “Cesc, no. You can wait until tonight.”

Cesc bounces in his seat, hits his fist against the dashboard. “But I don’t want to wait. You and Leo always talk forever.”

“What’s wrong with Leo? You suddenly don’t like Leo?”

Cesc brings himself up against Pique’s side, rests his chin on his shoulder. “I like Leo. But I want your cock in my mouth. Now.”

The words are tempting, but Pique prides himself on his clean driving record. There’s a pause as Pique pretends to think about his choices. Then, “No.”

Cesc lets out an exasperated groan and flails back to his seat.

“And put your seatbelt on.”

Cesc’s voice raises a few octaves. “Put your seatbelt on,” he mocks.

Later, they’re getting ready to leave and Leo says, “Oh, did you want to see the boots I just—”

And Cesc shakes his head and grabs Pique’s hand. “No, we need to go.”

“That was rude,” Pique says in the car. “Really rude.”

“Well, I want some cock.”

“Well, you aren’t getting any, Brat.”

Cesc scoffs. “Yeah, like you are going to say no.”

They get back to Pique’s and Cesc goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he emerges, Pique’s boxers are crumpled on the floor and he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking his cock.

“Oh, thank the heavens,” Cesc says and strips, immediately, routinely. “I’ve been thinking about sucking your cock all fucking day.” He stands in front of Pique, naked, his own cock showing signs of life.

“Good. Now, get on the floor.” Cesc complies, almost too quickly, and drops to his knees. When he leans forward, tongue out, Pique grabs his hair. “I didn’t say you could.” He tugs Cesc’s head back, stands up. His cock is inches from Cesc’s mouth. He teases, presses the head against Cesc’s cheek, holds his hair tight.

“C’mon, this isn’t funny,” Cesc says, laughing. He sticks his tongue out, reaching for Pique’s cock.

“You were rude.” Pique’s strokes become more deliberate. Cesc isn’t laughing anymore.

When he comes, he spurts over Cesc’s forehead, his hair. Nothing lands close enough for Cesc to taste.

He pushes Cesc back, walks to the bed. “Clean yourself up. I don’t want my sheets dirty.”

This time, when Cesc emerges from the bathroom, the lights are off and Pique’s lying on his side. He folds himself behind Pique, wraps his arms around his waist. “I’m sorry.”

Pique opens his mouth once, twice. Cesc’s cock is hard, pressing against his ass. “Don’t tell me that. Tell Leo.” Wet hair prickles the back of his neck as Cesc nods.

An hour later, Pique wakes. Cesc is on his back, eyes open. “Can’t sleep?”

Pique presses a hand to Cesc’s chest, lets his palm graze his sternum, belly, and then—

“You haven’t touched yourself?” He sits up, throws back the covers. Cesc’s cock, hard, rests against his belly. He says, “Oh, Cesc,” but he thinks, “Oh Jesus. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Before Cesc can speak, Pique’s between his legs, pressing a dry finger against his hole. He doesn’t push in, just rubs, scrapes his nail against Cesc. It doesn’t take long. Pique sucks on the head of Cesc’s cock, swirls his tongue, and Cesc’s breathing through his nose and coming, hard. His belly twitches, spasms.

“That’s not normal, right?” It’s been a week. Cesc’s gone home and Pique is actually glad for once. “Like, normal people aren’t into that.”

“Into what?” Puyol isn’t drunk this time.

Pique looks around the pitch. Everyone’s stretching, talking. “Being ordered around.”

“Sure they are.” Puyol grab onto Pique’s shoulder for stability, pulls his foot behind him. “Like, some people like their hair pulled. Some like to be spanked. It’s the same thing, just more of a mental thing, I guess.”

“So, it’s not weird?”

“That doesn’t matter. The question is: Do you like it?”

At that, Gerard stares into the sun.

After the whistle’s blown, Pique finds Cesc and pulls him into a hug. He wishes Cesc would come to Barcelona already, wishes he could love him in public like this, all the time, every time. With his coat on, Cesc feels large, foreign.

“You’re getting my coat sweaty,” Cesc says, pushing against Pique’s chest. People come between them, Puyol grabs Pique by the back of his shirt, pulls, hugs, kisses his cheek, yells, “you glorious motherfucker!’” in his ear. And Cesc’s gone.

They’re celebrating in Sergio’s room, much to Iker’s chagrin, and Pique’s been so distracted, so overwhelmed, he doesn’t notice Cesc’s missing until Torres asks, “Did we leave him in the locker room…again?”

Pique pulls out his phone, texts: ur missing out on all the fun.

Cesc’s response is almost instantaneous: i didnt even play.

And Pique thinks, “Oh. Right.”

When he gets to their room, Cesc is under the covers. The lights are off and a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond is playing on the television.

“Cesc,” Pique starts, hugs Cesc through the quilt.

“Am I not good enough?”

“You’re good enough.”

Cesc laughs, bemused. “I’m the god damn captain of—”

“Cesc.”

“I shouldn’t even be here.”

“Cesc.”

“I—”

Pique pushes the covers back, rolls Cesc onto his back. His eyes are red, swollen. “Oh, Cesc.”

He makes sure Cesc comes first.

They’re back in Barcelona and Cesc is in a teasing mood. Pique is not. “And Thierry,” he says, grinning. He holds his hands apart, gestures, rolls his eyes back. “God, what a cock.”

“Don’t care,” Pique says, but his fists clench.

“I think you do, actually.” Cesc stretches his legs across the couch, nudges Pique’s thigh with his toe. “You hate knowing someone fucks me better than you do.”

And Pique leaves before he slaps Cesc. He reminds himself, Grown men don’t slap. Grown men don’t slap.

When he comes back, the lights are on and Cesc is still on the couch. “Done pouting?”

Pique doesn’t answer. He goes to the bedroom, shuts the door. It’s late, he’s tired, he’s still mad. A few minutes pass before Cesc comes in. The lights are still on, but Pique’s in bed.

“You know, I was just teasing,” he says as he moves to straddle Pique’s hips. “I mean, he was good but he wasn’t you.”

Soft hands move to cup Pique’s face, but Pique takes Cesc’s wrists, pushes his hands back.

“Come on, Gerard.” Cesc rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a fucking girl.”

And it’s quick. Pique sits up, knocking Cesc off balance. He presses Cesc’s wrists into the mattress, shoves a knee between his thighs. And just like that, Cesc’s quiet, pliant. “Is this what you want, Cesc?”

Heavy breathes create a barrier between the two men and then—

“Yes.”

Later, Cesc lies on his belly. His ass is red, handprints melding together to create one solid mark. “I was just kidding, you know. About Thierry.”

Pique grins at the ceiling. “I know.”


End file.
